


primary function

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor Deserves Happiness, Connor is extremely in touch with his sexuality, Connor puts things in his mouth, Experienced Connor, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hank Anderson is So Done, Hank is v confused, M/M, No Angst, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Rating May Change, boi gets around, hank is jealous af, you know what things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: For the most part, Hank managed to forget about the fact that Connor was, asStar Trek: The Next Generationput it, 'fully functional and anatomically correct'. It wasn't that he had anything against androids fucking; he just didn't want to know about Connor fucking, humans or otherwise.Hank learns something about Connor, then learns something about himself.





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreabean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreabean/gifts).



> Me: I'm done with fanfiction  
> Detroit Become Human: may I interest you in Hank/Connor  
> Me: HELLO DARKNESS MY OLD FRIEND
> 
> I didn't mean for this to happen but HERE I AM, writing for these two dorks. Please enjoy!

Connor didn’t always stay with Hank. He earned a working wage and rented a small apartment not too far from the precinct, usually retiring there on weekends and returning to wake Hank up at sunrise on Monday morning. Sometimes Hank joined him there when the nights in the office ran late – it was closer, cleaner, and there was a spare bed even though Hank wasn’t sure why Connor had one for himself in the first place, given he didn’t sleep.

It was after sunrise on Monday morning, and Connor hadn’t come to Hank’s house.

Hank wasn’t worried, not _really_. If something was wrong, Connor would’ve called or sent him a message. A quick call to the precinct confirmed he hadn’t gone straight into the office, despite several ongoing cases, so Hank downed a cup of bad coffee to wake himself up, dragged himself to his car, and let himself into Connor’s apartment without knocking.

The lights were on; that was a good sign. There was also something cooking, which was – strange, but not without precedent, Connor cooked (or tried to cook) for his own entertainment from time to time, with a side motive of trying to make Hank eat healthier things. What _wasn’t_ usual was that Connor, usually in a suit and tie, was standing over the stove in nothing but a pair of casual pants.

It occurred to Hank that he'd never actually seen Connor without at least a shirt on before. Those assholes at CyberLife really had thought of everything; deceptively broad shoulders hidden by a suit jacket, freckles lightly peppering his chest and back – seriously, why the ever-loving fuck did a CSI robot need _freckles_? – and the sort of bodily definition that might as well have been sculpted by Michelangelo.

“Connor?” Hank blurted.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," Connor said pleasantly, tilting his head in Hank’s direction to acknowledge his presence as though he wasn't standing there in his low-riding pants and a handtowel slung over his shoulder while he fried eggs. There was something incredibly surreal about the sight; Hank had to drag his gaze away from Connor's waistline. "Forgive my state of undress; I wasn't expecting you."

Evidently not.

"It's almost nine,” Hank said, trying to reboot his line of thought. “Usually you break my door down at the asscrack of dawn. What's the matter? Didn't get the daylight savings update or something?"

Connor's LED whirred yellow, just for a second. "No," he said. "I –"

Connor was saved from having to explain; he was interrupted by a young man emerging from his bedroom.

Hank stared.

The young man was attractive – younger than thirty, fit, chiselled in all the right places. He needed to shave, but even made the morning-after look completely natural. Hank knew damn well what he was looking at, but that didn’t mean he was processing it or that he had to like it.

"Who the hell is this?" Hank demanded, as if suffering some sort of personal betrayal.

Connor replied swiftly, tone mild, as if a man hadn’t just wandered out of his bedroom. "Lieutenant, this is Jacob. Jacob, this is my work partner, Lieutenant Hank Anderson."

"Pleasure," the guy muttered in a tone that was anything but as he pulled his jacket on and zipped it up.

"You aren't staying for breakfast?" Connor asked the guy. He set a plate of steaming hot bacon and eggs down on the table. It smelled fucking amazing – a perfect balance of butter, pepper and salt – but only because Connor had been using Hank as a guinea pig for months while he perfected the dish.

"Ah – no," Connor's fuck buddy (because apparently he had one, because apparently he knew what sex was and was doing it, what the fuck, what the _fuck_ –) said. "Thanks, though. I had fun last night."

Oh, _hell_ , Hank didn't need to hear that.

"Likewise," Connor replied. His LED spun blue. "Perhaps you and I might –"

"Look, uh,” the guy interrupted, “it’s probably better if we don't – do this again. I'm not really looking for anything with an android, y'know?"

Connor's smile was half a second too late; the smile just a tad too strained to resemble the easy grin he'd practically trademarked. His LED flickered yellow. "I understand."

It was too fucking early in the morning for Hank to deal with this shit. He felt a migraine starting to pound behind his eyes while the guy left without so much as a backwards glance at Connor, whose expression revealed nothing.

"What an asshole," Hank muttered after the door closed behind Jason or Jayden or Jackass, whatever his name was. He slumped into the chair and dragged the plate of eggs and bacon over to him, regretting he'd gotten up that morning at all. “Christ. D’you mind?”

“Not at all. I’d rather it didn’t go to waste.”

Good; Hank needed some protein if he was going to function for the rest of the day after witnessing _that_. Connor cleaned the kitchen swiftly, completely unaware that he’d altered Hank’s worldview in a matter of minutes. He wolfed down the bacon in lieu of thinking too hard about it. The bacon was as good as it had smelled, as it bloody should have been after Hank had endured weeks of undercooked and oversalted or overcooked and undersalted attempts by Connor since the uprising.

"Not looking for anything with an android, but using you like a sex toy is just fine I guess,” Hank muttered. Just because he was trying to process this new reality didn’t mean he couldn’t also be sour on Connor’s behalf. “You didn't _really_ want him to stay, did you?"

"He didn't realise I was an android at first," Connor said, not actually answering Hank's question.

"Jesus, Connor, how drunk was he? It's a bit hard to miss."

"Inebriation wasn't a factor. It's become something of a trend in night clubs –"

_Night clubs?_

"– for humans to attach a decorative LED to their temples for roleplaying. He thought I was just acting."

That was far more than what Hank wanted to know. He lost his appetite very quickly. "And, uh –" he managed to force out, downing half a glass of water in between the words, "how long exactly has this night clubbing thing been going on for?"

"A few months," Connor said.

Jesus, a few _months?_ What the fuck had Hank been doing to miss that? He shook his head, grateful he didn’t have an LED; if he did, he imagined it would be spinning yellow and red in mild alarm. What if Connor had been hurt? What if he’d been taken out back and beaten up by some anti-android fuckwit? Granted, now that he _was_ thinking about it, and not in a panicky way, he knew that was a stupid line of thought – he’d seen Connor fight off humans, androids, sprint through speeding traffic, gun down deviants faster than Hank could blink. He knew how to look after himself.

"But like – does it _do_ anything for you?” Hank said, saying the first coherent thing that came to his bewildered mind. “I mean..."

"You're surprised I would engage in an activity that for all intents and purposes only provides pleasure in the basest of human ways,” Connor said. “It's true that I don't experience enjoyment of music or dancing the same way you would, but I've discovered that my thyrium regulator synchronises with the heavy bass beat of night club music; it's a rather pleasant sensation. As for sexual intimacy –"

Hank choked on his eggs.

"– while it is not my primary function, I am a state-of-the-art prototype designed for the specific purpose of integration with humans.”

Hank had known that, but he hadn’t _realised_ –

“Now I can use those abilities for a sense of personal intrigue, rather than a method for delicate extraction of information. I find the experience most gratifying. Have you finished eating?"

"Wh—" Hank's brain was still stuck on the 'personal intrigue' part. "Yeah. Thanks."

Connor took the plate away, disposing of whatever was left and setting it in the sink. His LED was still yellow, spinning and spinning and spinning, which Hank knew meant he was deep in thought. Processing, Connor would call it, but Hank knew damn well he was thinking, _feeling_ –

"Hey," Hank said, softer now. "Don't let that asshole get to you."

The LED slowed and blinked blue once more. Connor straightened, turning to face Hank. "Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant, but I assure you, I'm perfectly fine. No feelings have been hurt. He simply wanted something – different."

Was Connor that different, really? Hank thought of Markus and North, and the two Tracis holding hands, running off into the night.

"And what is it you want, Connor? To be with someone?"

The corner of Connor's mouth lifted. "Now, Lieutenant, don't get any ideas about setting me up with some nice android at the station. I'm happy with the way things are."

"Oh yeah?"

"For example,” Connor said, “our arrangement. It is – perfectly satisfactory to me. And I hope it is of similar emotional benefit to you."

"You can say we’re friends, Connor,” Hank drawled.

"I wouldn't want to put words your mouth," Connor replied, still smirking.

“It’s nothing compared to what you put in your own mouth.”

Connor lifted an eyebrow. Hank was too old to blush, and his beard would have hidden it anyway, but he definitely needed a hard, stiff – _fuck_ – drink when the implication hit.

Hank snorted and shook his head. _Too damn old for this shit_. "All right, smartass. Get some damn clothes on, we're leaving."


	2. part two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Please keep this safe for me, Lieutenant."
> 
> "Why, what's –” It clicked; there was no blinking LED on the side of Connor’s head. “Oh my God. Connor, no. This is a bad idea."
> 
> Connor winked, and disappeared into the crowd.
> 
> "Goddamnit," Hank swore, and downed the champagne.

For the most part, Hank managed to forget about the fact that Connor was, as _Star Trek: The Next Generation_ put it, 'fully functional and anatomically correct'. It wasn't that he had anything against androids fucking; he just didn't want to know about Connor fucking, humans or otherwise.

It wasn’t that Connor brought it up – small mercies, Hank supposed. Rather he suspected that if he hadn’t barged in on Connor half naked, he might never have found out at all. Trouble was, when he thought about it like that, without even meaning to, he found himself remembering Connor half naked, frying eggs and bacon with a towel slung over his bare, broad shoulders, then started catching himself more than once staring directly at Connor’s waistline while his partner strode past their desk in the office, recalling the low sling of his pants around hips that should probably have been illegal for any person, human or android, to possess. Then when he caught himself, he felt like a dirty old man for perving on some young, innocent android, but Connor wasn’t exactly _innocent_ , now was he, and that made Hank scowl and start the cycle of trying to forget all over again.

Trouble was, Hank’s attraction to Connor had always been a hypothetical; a concept of vague possibility that existed in some corner of his mind that was never meant to be accessed. Now it felt like the floodgates had opened and he was trying to drain a fucking ocean out with a sand bucket.

And so fucking what? Hank might have been past his prime but he still had eyes and a functioning body, even if he hadn’t used said body for much else in recent years beyond binge drinking that bordered on alcoholism, barely sustained on high cholesterol foods. And besides, it wasn’t like certain other muscles of his had atrophied from disuse, and even _if_ they had, which they _hadn’t_ , that wouldn’t have stopped him from – _appreciating_ Connor’s physical appeal. But not in that way. In a hypothetical way. He wasn’t going to start jacking off to fantasies of Connor, because _that_ was a can of worms he didn’t want to open.

Whatever. _Whatever_. Not a big deal. Who _wasn’t_ , on some level, attracted to Connor? It wasn’t Hank’s fault that his resolve was only as good as the source of his discomfort. Connor wasn’t exactly making things _easy_.

Like tonight. Tonight Connor was in black tie – Hank didn’t even _know_ Connor had a black tie outfit, but he’d been designed to infiltrate and extract information so why the hell wouldn’t he own a black tie outfit – and he looked about a million bucks next to Hank, who looked like he’d been hauled out of a bargain bin for a fiver.

Hank fidgeted with his tie again. They were both at the edges of the room – Hank hiding in the shadows to avoid socialising with people far, far beyond his paygrade, Connor slouching almost seductively against a pillar – in a mansion belonging to a person of interest in their latest case. Corporate espionage, a dead investor, no leads except for the wealthy socialite who’d been one of the last people to see him alive; Connor remarked at the time that it felt very _noir._ Hank suspected that Connor just wanted the opportunity to dress up. Probably thought he was James Bond or Humphrey Bogart or something, like he wasn’t already Detective Connor RK800, Woman’s Weekly Android Heartthrob of the Month ( _that_ was a thing Hank had had the misfortune to discover).

"This was a stupid idea,” Hank grumbled. “There's no way we'll be able to get close enough to ask her about the case.”

She’d been brought in for questioning. Gavin, the prick, had fucked it up and now there was no legal recourse to bring her back in for a second round – not that she’d go anywhere without at least an army of lawyers. Hank hated lawyers. So this was their best bet to get some information “the old-fashioned way”, or so Connor claimed.

"I may have an idea,” Connor said, and passed Hank his flute of champagne. “Excuse me for a moment."

"Where d’you think you’re going?"

"To the restroom."

To do what? Powder his nose? Pretend to pee? Hank shook his head and waved his hand, not that Connor had even waited for his permission. He wasn’t gone long. When he returned, there was something different about his face that Hank didn’t immediately place until Connor handed him a small metal box.

"Please keep this safe for me, Lieutenant."

"Why, what's –” It clicked; there was no blinking LED on the side of Connor’s head. “Oh my God. Connor, no. This is a bad idea."

Connor winked, and disappeared into the crowd.

"Goddamnit," Hank swore, and downed the champagne.

He followed from a distance, watching Connor weave his way through the elites of Detroit, laughing at someone’s joke, swiftly moving in cadence with the ebbs and flows of human bodies. He kept a close eye when finally reached the target. Connor stepped swiftly behind the heiress and, with his left foot he scuffed the carpet, just enough so that when she stepped back, her stiletto heel caught on the fabric.

She lost her balance and started to fly backwards almost comically, her lips parted halfway to a cry.

She didn't land comically, however. Her fall was halted by a strong arm around her waist and she ended up looking like she was caught in a dip mid-waltz, her hand clenched in the fabric of Connor's jacket.

"Oh," she breathed, her other hand pressing against her ample chest.

Hank watched as Connor smiled – a particular expression he'd had seen exactly one time before, directed at _him_ , that day at Chicken Feed when Connor had looked him in the eye and smirked and _winked_ , and now Hank knew what Connor had been doing and goddamnit, it had worked on him as effectively as it was working on the heiress.

"Careful," Connor murmured.

Not even ten minutes later, the heiress was on Connor's arm, her eyes slightly dazed while he talked to her – charming her with lines that Hank _knew_ were recited from television dramas and bad 90s romance movies, because he’d fucking _shown_ them to Connor himself a few months back to get Connor out of the habit of just downloading the files to his head. Hank downed another glass of champagne and watched his partner seduce a suspect to the point where she _grabbed his tie and hauled him into a kiss_ , and really, how _dare_ Connor made Hank see that with his own two eyes.

Eventually Connor and the heiress disappeared upstairs, his hand caressing the small of her back where her dress plunged dangerously low.

“Fuck you, Connor,” Hank grumbled.

Connor returned to the car well after midnight; his shirt was ruffled, his tie undone and slung around his shoulders, the first few buttons undone and a smear of red lipstick at the corner of his mouth.

“Have fun?” Hank bit out, bitter.

“I did,” Connor responded, checking himself out in the mirror to clean himself up, “but that’s irrelevant to the case. I have a lead.”

Connor gave him the rundown of the evidence he’d collected from the heiress’s room, presumably which he’d scanned for _during_ – _don’tthinkaboutit_ – his information-extraction gambit. Hank listened, mostly in silence, nodding when needed.

“Good work,” Hank said, still bitter, because it _was_ good work, even if it was – ethically questionable, to say the least. He dug around in his pocket and passed the metal box back. Connor’s fingers – _long, slender, smooth, a bit cool to the touch_ – grazed his hand just a little too long, or more likely Hank was imagining things.

“Thank you,” Connor said, quietly. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Hank muttered. “Just – don’t sleep with anymore suspects, got it?”

“Got it,” Connor very obviously lied, just like the time he said _got it_ about not putting evidence in his mouth, and what did Connor still do at every single fucking crime scene? Put the fucking evidence in his mouth, and somewhere along the way he’d upgraded to putting entire _suspects_ in his mouth.

Whatever. The joke was on her; Hank knew what sort of shit Connor put between those (stupid, perfect, soft) lips of his. Hank wouldn’t get within ten feet of that mouth unless Connor brushed his teeth, or at the very least popped a breath mint first.

Strictly hypothetically speaking, of course.

Connor reattached his LED; it briefly illuminated the car in a soft blinking blue glow. “Are you all right, Hank?”

Hank loosened his grip on the steering wheel and exhaled, setting the vehicle back to autodrive. Connor had probably scanned him and registered a spike in temperature; that was the last damn thing either of them needed, especially since said heat had settled in his gut sometime much earlier that evening and still hadn’t left.

“Just peachy, Connor,” he replied.

“All right.”

Then Connor took out a pack of – were those _Tic Tacs?_ – a pack of breath mints and popped one in his mouth.

God fucking _damn it_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor if you want to fuck someone Hank is _right there_.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr and yell at me about Hank/Connor - I'm **@hlmoorewrites** and I definitely should be writing my next book instead of fanfiction. But I hope you like this anyway! Next part will happen when it happens. Hopefully soon. Please leave a review if you can!


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